Perfection
by anthrop
Summary: All we do, we do to achieve the impossible. A performance told from the thick of it.


**Perfection**

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As one, we face absolute scrutiny. Beneath a vast magnifying glass our bodies bubble and distort in and out of fantastic shapes. Breathless men in matching polos catalog our every mistake. I hear them beyond our music, whispering into their black recorders. High above the aluminum stands more men watch us, faceless and hunched, watching from behind a great wall of glass. They command this magnifying glass, watching our forms with an intensity bordering on the obsessive. The command us, and all we can do as we follow complex patterns—tattooed into our brains by endless hours of work—is wait for the inevitable ray of fire. No matter our efforts, our sweat, our tears, our blood—despite everything we've done to attain perfection, someone will fail.

Someone will burn.

We all know this. We've all accepted it. All that is left to do now is do our damnedest to make sure we give the crowd a show they won't soon forget.

I fumble, nearly trip, but catch myself before the judges can spot me. A flash of panic stabs at my attention, and the next note I play comes out ugly and garbled. _Don't think, don't think, don't, don't you're FINE—_

I slip back into the music, into the oneness of our pulse.

We reach a hit, one of so many, and I redouble my efforts. There can be no mistakes. I must be perfect. _We_ must be perfect. A river of orange and yellow flows across my sight—the colorguard raise their rippling flags as they stream through us as water across rock. Lights flash and strike at my eyes. There is applause, and endless motion in the stands, and we push on.

"…tubas doing a great job keeping the band together, sound fantastic too—good job with that form as they…" The judge fades out of earshot as he moves on to the clarinets nearby.

The three of us scream in our brief rest, raw and triumphant. It's been years since this band has had a decent tuba section, and no matter how often we hear our praise it's like the first time all over again. I call out to our sophomore tuba to slow down, and I do likewise; in our eagerness we had begun to rush, and our form had broken down.

We've entered the ballad—the most difficult movement by far. My legs burn, but I keep them strong. I can't let my notes tremble. The baseline must be stone. But I am so tired, so tired already. Can't get enough air to breathe, everything is too bright and all the sound has drained out of the world. Beneath the heavy black and red wool of my uniform I am drenched in sweat and goosebumps—we must be doing something right.

The final note of the ballad—we're already there? The woodwinds remain stationary, performing an immensely complex array of notes, as the brass pushes to the left with the drumline, pushing the show on to the fourth movement. The low brass spins around in two quick beats and charges back, splitting into two gates. Ahead of me, our sophomore tuba asks if we're going to do the visual. I scream an affirmative, and she passes it on to our freshman on her right.

I fall silent just in time for another hit. Loud and clear and (hopefully) in tune, I strive to balance out the high brass and the woodwinds. Let this sound perfect, let this _be_ perfect. With tubas on my left, drums on my right, the rest of the band comes together in a perfect block. Another hold—! The crowd cheers.

And it's time for the dance.

Despite my hitching lungs and over stimulated senses, I manage a monosyllabic laugh. So many band kids performing mimed choreography with brightly colored sunshades will always be ridiculous. But the crowd eats it up, like always.

The three of us stand in the back with the drumline, doing our own small visuals (No shades for us—our instruments are simply too big.) while band and colorguard dance and the percussion explodes with power.

The dance break ends, and we become musicians once more. The end of the fourth movement is nerve-wracking, and I'm always afraid I and the trombone player who takes the place of the quad drum on my right will crash into each other, but we do it. We do it _well._ And the final movement begins with a great burst of sound from us all, before opening with a flurry of high brass, and then bolstered by the trombones and baritones. We tubas are silent just briefly, taking heaving breaths to prepare for our lick.

My second valve sticks, comes unglued, sticks again. No gasping men in polos are near me, so only my friends hear me swear in disgust. I rejoin with the quads again, as it will remain for the last forty seconds of the show. We push, push, push to the right, our sound en masse and perfect. _Please let it be perfect._

The final two sets—Hell. I charge twenty more yards to the right (backwards, no less), then ten to the left in half the time. The final hold—a horn flash!—_crescendo—crescendo—_and the cutoff!

We stand at attention, gasping and hurting, and wait for our drum major's signal to ease into parade rest. Another wave of her white-gloved hand, and our lead snare begins the tap to take us off the field. I march forward after the colorguard have collected their silks out of our way, reflecting on how it went. I realize that I'm grinning, and laugh. It comes out weak and broken; my voice is gone. Good.

No. _Perfect.

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_Gah they changed everything. _

_Essay written for an assignment. Wrote about my high school band's performance in the Western Band Association (WBA) 2008, in Vegas. I wish we'd done better as a whole (eighth place in finals), but the tubas have never marched better. Ta da._

_Man I need to stop forgetting about this account._


End file.
